


Investigative Reporting For Dummies

by eigengrau



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Because this fandom needs more lesbians, F/F, Interpid Reporter Freddie Lounds, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/eigengrau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie pokes her nose where it doesn't belong (shockingly), this time at a strip club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Investigative Reporting For Dummies

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this one requires a tiny bit of explanation. Basically, in "Red Dragon" Freddy Lounds has a girlfriend called Wendy who owns a topless bar called "Wendy City". 
> 
> Kink Meme Prompt: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=182111#cmt182111  
> "I really love Wendy, Freddie's girlfriend in the Red Dragon novel, and I'd love to see something with her and show-Freddie -- first meeting, established relationship, anything."

The strip club is dark. Like, really dark. Freddie's already tripped over at least four guys with their legs sticking out in the aisles, and had to smile wide and fake apologies while they leered at her. The glitter she's covered herself in itches, the leather booty shorts she's wearing are riding up, and the star-shaped pasties on her boobs are coming dangerously un-adhered. If she loses her balance one more time, she's going to be slipping a nipple, big-time.   
  
The guys in the audience would probably like that. They're drooling over her like crazy, their ugly nylon ties loose around their necks and they hands pawing at her. She laughs coyly and tries to make her way backstage as fast as possible. Someone slaps her ass, and she has to resist the urge to turn around and punch them in the nuts.  
  
Going undercover on this assignment may not have been the best thing Freddie's ever done. The more she looks around the place, the more convinced she is that there's nothing suspect going on here. Well, at least not any more suspect than any normal strip club. She's starting to suspect that the "juicy scoop" her informant promised her was really just an excuse to get her into a skimpy outfit.  
  
Asshole.  
  
Still, if Freddie is  _anything_ , she's persistent. And she's not one to waste a perfectly good Thursday night. So she keeps on picking her way through the club, valiantly attempting not to fall on her face. Her purse, which she clutches by the strap over her shoulder, is heavy with the weight of her audio recorder, and bumps against her leg as she stumbles around, strobe lights flashing multi-colored over the room. The music pumps with a heavy beat that Freddie can feel in the back of her throat.  
  
She spots a black door hidden near the stage. A guy- nearly seven feet tall- is standing in front with his arms crossed over his chest menacingly. He glares down at her, confused, as she saunters over, tottering on her heels.  
  
She flashes him a toothy smile. "Hi. Can I go back? I'm on in a few minutes, and I gotta get changed."  
  
He frowns. "Are you new?"  
  
Freddie forces a giggle and tries- really, really hard- not to roll her eyes. "Can you tell?"  
  
Something must work (probably the pasties, to be honest) because the bouncer's face softens, and he turns and pushes the door open. "Head on in. Break a leg."  
  
"Thanks!" She burbles, and darts in.  
  
The back hall is brightly lit, and almost looks like an office building. As Freddie fumbles to get her camera out of her purse a door bursts open and a gaggle of girls spill out, wearing a lot of body paint and not much else. She snaps a photo surreptitiously as they move push past her. She checks the monitor. Yeah, she can't publish something like that on the internet- she's not running a porn site. Still, she thinks, tucking the camera away, it never hurts to add to her personal stash.   
  
There's a door at the end of the hall with "Wendy" emblazoned on it in big black letters. She narrows her eyes and strides toward it with purpose, nearly breaking an ankle in the process.   
  
The knob turns without resistance, and she slips in.   
  
The office isn't remarkable. In fact, it's plain old  _boring_. The fluorescent lights flicker, the desk is empty except for a well-read copy of People magazine, and the filing cabinets are painfully empty. There's a leather riding crop resting on top of the rickety metal, and Freddie frowns. Who keeps empty filing cabinets around? In fact, who even uses filing cabinets anymore these days? What is this, 1992?  
  
There's a laptop on the desk. It's three years out of date. Freddie's fingers twitch, her mouth starts to water, and she smiles.  
  
She sits down behind the desk and opens the computer with a flourish.  
  
There's a web page open. Freddie's eyes widen as the headline "Miraculous New Cancer Cure Found: Are YOU Wasting Your Banana Peels?" emblazons the screen.  
  
Whoever's computer this is, they've been reading tattlecrime.com.   
  
Freddie stares at her blog. She's proud of the cancer article- cancer is always popular with the desperate- but wow, she really needs to update the font on the header. She's gonna have to work on that when she gets home. She's so wrapped up in looking at her own website (and yeah, okay, all those exes who've accused her of being a little wrapped up in herself are kinda right) that she doesn't hear the click of killer stilettos heading down the hall towards the office. And when the door swings open, she's left sitting behind the desk, staring up at the blonde woman with the truly spectacular breasts who's glaring at her. If looks could kill, Freddie would at least be hospitalized.  
  
She blushes, caught red-handed. One of her pasties finally gives up and falls to the table with a soft plop. The blonde tilts her head to one side and raises an eyebrow.  
  
"I'm going to guess you're not the IT guy."  
  
"Um."  
  
"And you  _definitely_  don't work for me. I wouldn't let one of my girls be caught dead in those." She gestures to the booty shorts. Freddie shifts in the chair self-consciously. "What exactly are you doing in my establishment?"  
  
Freddie shrugs. "Well, I was supposed to be doing research for an article I'm writing, but I think my tipper gave me the wrong strip club to check out because yours is pretty dull."  
  
"It's a gentleman's club. And trust me, sweetheart, it's more exciting on weekends." The blonde closes the door behind her. "I read your blog."  
  
"Yeah, I saw." Freddie points to the computer.   
  
"It's a lot of bullshit, 90% of the time."  
  
"Well," Freddie flashes her a smile, "bullshit pays."  
  
"That it does. And I must admit, you do write entertaining bullshit." The blonde- Wendy, because who else could it be- leans across the desk and picks up the fallen paste. She hands it to Freddie and smiles back. "I would tell you to get the hell out of my building but I get the feeling that you'd just take that as encouragement to stick around."  
  
Shoving the sticky fabric star into her pocket, Freddie grins. "That's the feeling you get?"  
  
"Yep." Wendy grabs Freddie's chin in a surprisingly strong hand. Her carefully manicured fingernails dig into her cheek, but Freddie's too distracted by Wendy's bountiful cleavage to be bothered. In fact... she crosses her legs, clutching at the edge of the desk. Suddenly the riding crop on top of the filing cabinet makes a lot more sense.  
  
Wendy stares at her for a second, then smirks. "Miss Lounds," she purrs, "I do think I'm going to have to punish you for trespassing on my private property."  
  
The reporter gulps. "Please," she whispers, "call me Freddie."  
  
This night may not have been a bust after all.

 


End file.
